Reality was a joke. It was only to be ignored and avoided at all cost. It was unreal that my mother was dying. It was unreal that my father would never be able to give me the attention I need. It was unreal that at ten years old I had no faith, no belief and no will. It was unreal that my 17 year old sister would resent me for years because she had to take care of me. These "unrealities"soon began to feel like critical fatalities as I would push myself deeper and deeper into my own flesh. By the time I was twelve I was a completely addicted self-mutilator. I would cut myself on purpose to fill the voids created by my mother's disease, my father's addiction to work and my sister's resentment towards me. Eventually the addiction would fade into my past, but always have residency in my mind. The scars will never go away. The feelings will always be real now. The reality is: I'm fifteen years old. Meaning I'm not even through one-fourth of my life. I have patience, faith and optimism. My mother will never be my mother again, but I can always love her. My father will always work too much, but he is working for me. My sister will resent me but that doesn't mean I will resent myself. I will reclaim my identity as a human and will no longer be the"cutter".